Johnny W.
Google
Wayan’e serves tacos the way your grandmother would if she’d survived a few hurricanes and stopped caring what anyone thought. Thick, tender tortillas piled with cochinita that bleeds achiote and history, pollo pibil tangled in its own citrusy steam, frijol colado as black and glossy as obsidian, and that smoky pollo asado crowned with beans like it wandered in from a backyard parrilla. Nothing here is delicate. Everything is honest. It’s the kind of food that tastes like Mérida smells at noon: hot, deep, ancestral, alive. You eat with your hands, your shirt pays the price, and you walk out feeling like you just shook hands with Yucatán itself.
